


the same thing as being alone

by harukatenoh



Category: My Own Private Idaho (1991)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Lucid Dreaming, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-07-27 18:55:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20050906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harukatenoh/pseuds/harukatenoh
Summary: In Mike’s dreams, Scott still walks away.





	the same thing as being alone

**Author's Note:**

> writing c*mm for the lovely taya! thank you so much. i hope you like this!!!
> 
> i'm offering kofi c*mmissions over on twitter @messybi, so check that out if u want a casual flexible fun fic c*mm from me. ao3 pls dont snipe me for this
> 
> work title is from ketchum, id by boygenius. yes i feel very clever for using this song

He’s dreaming.

The reason that Mike knows he’s dreaming is that they’re drinking tea. He doesn’t often drink tea. It’s supposed to have less caffeine than coffee, and he hardly drinks coffee anyway, so there’s no point to it. He thinks that he read once, in an advert splashed on a shop corner or in the blurb of a magazine, that tea is a calming agent. It’s supposed to represent warmth and coziness and tranquillity, all of those concepts that Mike knows exist but can’t quite come close to touching.

Except for when he’s around Scott. 

Which brings him to here: in his dreams, drinking tea, with Scott sitting across from him.

Despite it all, Mike doesn’t dream often. The sleep he usually courts is a thief, and it tends to steal everything from him. He’s only started to recall his dreams now that he’s waking up by Scott’s side. 

It’s strange. Being by Scott’s side is soporific like nothing Mike has felt before; all those other moments where he drops off the edge are his way of running away, yet Scott makes him feel like he finally has somewhere to run to.

The cup is warm in his hands. When he takes a sip, it’s just the right temperature and goes down smoothly, the taste of earth and honey and apple curling on his tongue. Scott is on the other side of the table, a light green mug in his hands. It’s a familiar colour. It’s a familiar sight. Mike knows he is dreaming, but he feels himself relax into the scene anyway.

Scott says “I’ll never leave you,” as if Mike doesn’t already know that he’s dreaming. The illusion trembles at the words, but doesn’t quite shatter.

“I’m holding you to that,” Mike says quietly. Everybody has told Mike, one way or another, that he’s too helpless. In general, but more so when it comes to Scott. Mike trusts Scott so much that he’ll hold him to promises he makes in dreams and expect them to be fulfilled. Scott hasn’t let him down yet, but the time will probably come. Or it won’t. Who knows.

Mike never knows when he’s about to pass out until it happens, but he always knows when he’s about to wake up. He can feel that it’s soon; this dream and this tea and this promise will not last much longer. Best make what he can of it.

He looks at Scott and asks him “Why are you doing this?”

Scott smiles at him, that careless, fond grin he always gives Mike, and says “I don’t know, Mike. I’m in your head.”

Mike scoffs at that, taking another sip from his tea. In his head, sure. Scott’s always in his head. What difference does it make?

(Before Mike can reply, the illusion shudders and gives out, and then he’s blinking himself awake in the morning sun. Scott is sitting propped up against the motorcycle, and when he notices Mike sitting up, he grins. Careless, fond. Maybe the illusion never ends.)

The next time it happens, Mike goes to sleep in Scott’s arms and wakes up at the beach. At least, what he thinks a beach would look like. It seems to him that his mind’s doing a pretty convincing job, but he hasn’t ever seen the beach in person, so he wouldn’t know.

Somebody steps up beside him, and his head instinctively turns.

Scott isn’t wearing a shirt, but he’s got a towel slung around his shoulders, like a superhero’s cape or something. It makes him look stupid as hell, but Mike smiles at the sight anyway.

“You ever been to the beach?” he asks Scott.

Scott looks at Mike and tilts his head, making his hair fall across his face as he does. It’s a little lighter than normal in the sun, and Mike wants to do something stupid, like run his hands through it. He stops himself, but—oh, well, he’s _ dreaming. _

He reaches out a hand and pushes back the sunkissed bangs. Scott grins at him.

“Sure I have, Mike,” Scott replies, leaning a little into Mike’s touch. Mike, absurdly, feels like he’s doing something terrible, taking terrible terrible advantage of Scott and his kindness and his carelessness. The fact that he’s dreaming doesn’t stop him from feeling that way.

“Was it like this?” Mike asks, pulling his hand away.

“You weren’t there,” Scott says. “It was just me and my family, so the trip wasn’t exactly a success.”

That isn’t what Mike asked, but he should’ve expected the answer.

Scott’s been talking about his family a lot more as they travel around America. Horror stories in motel bars and quiet confessions by the fireside. If Mike wanted to, he could fool himself and chalk it up to Scott opening up more, a result of their increased closeness. But he knows the real reason. 

Mike knows what Scott is doing, when he brings his family up. Scott talks about his family with terrible, derisive tones and utterly tired eyes yet he keeps on doing it and doing it. 

He thinks that Mike’s quest to find his mother will end in heartbreak. It probably will. Scott drops cold comments about his father and his mother and his big empty house and every one is designed to remind Mike that family isn’t all that, that finding his mother won’t solve anything.

But Scott doesn’t get it. 

See, Mike knows all of that already. Scott thinks he doesn’t, but he does. Scott is the one who doesn’t understand here; he doesn’t know what it’s like, to want something that badly. He doesn’t know what it’s like to want something so very fucking much, regardless of the consequences, regardless of the warning signs. He doesn’t know that all of the empty places inside of Mike crave and crave and crave and that this craving makes Mike brave, makes him stupid.

It’ll end in disaster, sure. Mike will see it through.

Mike says “You know, there are some things I know about more than you.” Not beaches. Not family. But there are some things.

Scott laughs, bumping his shoulder against Mike’s. “Like roads, right?”

Mike laughs too, letting himself be drawn into the sunshine and the water. Yeah, he knows about roads. He knows about roads and about wanting and about love, and he’s not sure that Scott knows anything about those things.

(When Mike wakes up, the sun shines as brightly as it did at that beach, and he wonders if he’s just moved from one dream to the next.

Then, a voice nearby says “Rise and shine, Mike. I do believe we’ll get to your brother’s house this afternoon,”

Mike rolls onto his side and takes in Scott, standing in the sun, hair falling in his face. Mike doesn’t move from where he’s lying.

He asks “You ever been to the beach, Scott?”

Scott looks confused at the question, but after a second of hesitation, he responds “Sure I have, Mike. It’s pretty nice. Shall I take you one day?”

Mike rolls back onto his back, so that he’s staring at the sun instead of staring at Scott. “I’d like that,” he murmurs.)

Aeroplanes are strangely soothing, even if there’s a tug of anxiety that draws around Mike’s wrist at the thought of being so high up, so far away. He always feels far away, but it’s very different to feel it and to be it.

Strangely soothing is strangely soothing, however, so Mike’s lulled into sleep soon enough. When he opens his eyes again, he’s exactly where he was: slumped against the window of the plane, curled into a ball in his seat.

At first, he thinks that he had just taken a nap, a genuine and dreamless nap, but no—

There’s nobody else here. Scott isn’t even here. It’s just him, on this plane, in his dreams.

He stretches out his legs, and then his arms, cautiously moving himself out of the seat. It’s so quiet. He’s a little scared that any sudden movements will break the dream, and he’ll be back on the real plane, with all of the people. He prefers this weird dream. He’s never heard quiet like this before.

He wonders where Scott is. Mike’s had dreams without Scott, probably, even if none come to mind immediately, but not for the past few months. Scott has been a constant these past few months, in his dreams or when he’s awake.

When Mike glances out of the window, he sees nothing but a road, a giant one, stretching endlessly. There’s nothing else but the road, and he’s flying over it.

Jesus, dreams are _ weird. _

Eventually, he gets tired of staring at the road underneath him. He decides to explore the rest of the plane, wondering if this dream has anything else to offer. If not Scott then… something, surely? He’d probably get bored if he was stuck in this quiet for too long.

He shuffles down the aisles. It’s awfully odd to see the empty seats.

He stops at the door, wonders if he should open it, but after a few moments of staring, he realizes he has no idea how to operate the lock. It’s definitely some kind of fancy mechanism, but his sleeping mind didn’t think to put in any instructions, and he’d rather not mess with it. He’ll probably fuck up and get sent flying, the bad kind of flying, and end up faceplanting on the road.

Actually, that doesn’t sound that unusual for him. Still. Best not to risk it.

He continues on, and sees that the door to the pilot’s area is open. He walks in and—ah, there’s Scott. Thank god. Mike’s thought train had been getting morbid.

Scott turns to Mike, even though he’s flying an entire plane, and says “There you are,”

“Were you waiting for me?” Mike asks, the corners of his mouth pulling up despite himself. He’s a little mad at Scott, for making him look, for not being there when he first woke up, but that’s probably unfair. Mike can’t expect Scott to always be around, now can he?

He can’t, but he does.

Scott nods and says “Of course. Can’t do this without my trusty co-pilot, right?” and Mike laughs and laughs. Even though he knows jack shit about planes he slips into the seat beside Scott and presses a button experimentally; the sky in front of them lights up.

“You turned on the headlights!” Scott says, sounding delighted. “Good work.”

The praise makes Mike smile, and it’s a feeling that he wants to keep to himself and carry around for when the days are dark. 

“What else do you need, oh captain?” Mike teases, looking over the board of controls. It’s mostly just buttons and flashing lights, but there’s a map in the corner. The only places marked on it are IDAHO and ROMA, and Mike’s not quite sure it’s geographically accurate, but whatever. It doesn’t need to be. He’s fucking dreaming.

Scott’s wearing a pilot’s hat now, and it makes him look beyond ridiculous. Mike giggles into his hands, and then feels a weight on his head. When he reaches up to feel what it is, his fingers come into contact with stiff fabric and a shiny badge. He’s wearing one too. He must look as ridiculous.

He giggles again, and presses another button. 

This time, some music starts playing in the little room. It takes Mike a moment to place what it is, but then he realizes it’s the weirdass performance music that Hans had played for them two days ago, complete with Hans’ vocals. 

Mike and Scott both burst out laughing. Mike can’t fucking believe people like Hans exist in the world.

“Change the channel,” Scott says through his laughter, even though Mike’s absolutely certain no radio would _ ever _ play this. Still, he obligingly hits what he hopes is the right button, and it is; the music switches to some classical music stuff that Mike can’t name, but Scott can probably _ play. _

Their laughter dies down, leaving behind silence and a smile on Mike’s face that he can’t get rid of. 

“Arrival in five minutes,” Scott says, moving the steering wheel in front of him. Mike peers out of the window in front of them, but he can’t see anything. The only thing that the headlights illuminate is clouds and clouds and more clouds, but, well, Mike trusts Scott well enough. 

“I’m ready,” Mike says, and presses a few more buttons. He has no idea what they do, but nothing seems to break, so it’s fine.

“What shall we do when we arrive?” Scott asks.

The obvious, and right answer, is look for Mike’s mum. That’s the entire reason they’re going to Italy. Mike feels a little bad for dragging Scott all this way, and a little worse for making Scott pay—Scott says that the money Hans gave them covered the tickets, but Mike’s absolutely certain that that’s bullshit—but… it’s his mother. He can’t express how bad he wants this. And really, Scott isn’t the type to be taken advantage of, or walked all over. Whatever Scott does, he wants to do. Mike won’t fool himself into thinking that Scott would bend over and let Mike do as he wishes if he asked. Scott’s only here—_ Mike’s _only here, because Scott wanted it.

Mike goes to answer, and instead of saying something about his mother, he says “We should eat pizza.” It’s the only thing he knows about Italy, really. Pizza and pasta and the fucking mafia. Isn’t he well travelled. 

Mike laughs to himself.

Scott rolls his eyes. “There’s pizza in America. Should we be en route to Brooklyn instead?” 

Taken off guard, Mike laughs. On the map, BROOKLYN has suddenly appeared. 

Scott motions spinning the wheel, making eye contact with Mike and smiling encouragingly as he does. 

Mike’s utterly charmed, and half-convinced, but he still says “No, I have to find my mother.”

Scott’s face falls. He says “Do you really?”

“She’s my family, Scott,” Mike mumbles. He feels the urge to pull up the collar of his jacket and hide his face in it. Scott keeps staring at him. He’s kind of a rubbish pilot.

“You don’t need a family, Mike,” Scott says, matter-of-fact. Scott has this special way of speaking, where everything he says sounds undeniably true. Or maybe Mike’s just a sucker. Scott continues “Wasn’t it going to be us against the world?”

Mike burrows deeper into his jacket, suddenly desperately aware of quiet it is. He can’t avoid Scott’s question. He’s dreaming. He should be able to, but he can’t.

“Easy for you to say,” Mike mumbles. “You know where your family is,”

Scott’s only in his head. This entire thing, this plane and this road and this situation, it’s all in Mike’s head. So it’s really not fair for it to hurt so much when Scott says “Yeah. I thought you did too,”

(The plane is surprisingly quiet when Mike wakes up, for real this time. He’s being shaken awake, a gentle touch at his shoulder and at his cheek.

He opens his eyes. Scott looks down at him and smiles and says “Everybody else has left. Let’s go,”

Mike nods and numbly lets Scott lead him down the empty aisles. Talk about deja-vu.)

He doesn’t fall asleep with Scott by his side that night, so Mike’s surprised when he wakes up and he’s sitting in a fountain. He still doesn’t know what to make of these dreams. Maybe he should ask Scott. Scott probably knows things about dreams and interpretations, just because Scott knows a little about everything. 

The water is up to his waist, but Mike doesn’t feel wet or cold at all. Honestly, it’s quite comfortable. From where he is, he can’t see anybody else, which means that Scott’s probably around a corner somewhere, waiting for Mike to go looking. 

Maybe Mike won’t go looking. Maybe Scott needs to learn that Mike’s not going to come running like a fucking dog if he whistles. 

Mike decides, then and there, that he’s perfectly happy to stay in this fountain. The water is clear and there are coins at the bottom, glinting brightly against the blue of the tiling. It’s pretty. The sound of running water is calming. The air is cool on his skin.

Mike sits there and pretends that it doesn’t feel like something is missing.

He doesn’t know how long he sits, idly playing with some coins within reach and making ripples in the water. It’s a little boring—not so bad that he wants to move—but when he hears footsteps, it’s hard to not think _ finally. _

Scott, because of course it’s Scott, comes into view. He says “There you are. I was looking for you,”

Mike scoffs. Feeling stubborn, he crosses his arms and huffs “Sure you were,”

Scott just smiles indulgently at him and sits at the side of fountain, fingers skimming across the surface of the water.

They sit like that for a while, with Scott tracing patterns in the stillness, and Mike watching them ripple out. The little waves never quite manage to reach him, and Mike wants to roll his eyes. Whatever his dream is trying to tell him, it’s fucking ridiculous.

Eventually, however, Mike caves. He pushes a bit of water towards Scott, and feels irrationally triumphant when the wave makes it all the way to those delicate fingers. 

“Do you ever dream?” Mike asks.

Scott nods. He flicks some water back at Mike. “Everybody dreams, Mike.”

Right. Of course. Mike presses on. “Do you think they mean anything?”

Scott stills in his movements, looking considering. Italy suits him. It’s all grand and elaborate designs and ancient monuments and beautiful people, so obviously it suits him. Mike doesn’t think there’s a single place in the world that suits him, except maybe the side of a road in Middle of Fucking Nowhere, ID. 

Scott replies “True, I talk of dreams, which are the children of an idle brain. Begot of nothing but vain fantasy,”

“Is that a no?”

Scott laughs. The sound is almost as calming as the rhythm of the fountain. “I think they mean something. What do you think yours mean?”

Mike shrugs. He’s pretty sure his dreams all mean one thing, the same tragic fucking thing. He thinks they mean _ I’m in love with you, _ and little else, and this love finds a new way to express itself every night. He thinks his dreams mean that he wants, and he just keeps wanting.

He doesn’t reply, and the conversation ends there. Mike closes his eyes.

The next time he opens them, it’s because of an alarmed sound from Scott. They’re still in the plaza, and he’s still in the fountain. He looks at Scott, who’s looking at the water.

“Is that from you?” Scott asks, and Mike looks down. Oh. There are colours bleeding into the water, orange and brown and yellow, and it takes Mike a moment to realize that the colours are coming from _ him. _ It’s his clothing, the dye slowly stripping out of it.

Scott stands up and says “Mike, get out of the water,”. He sounds worried, and twice as commanding as usual.

Mike looks up at him, framed by the sun and face severe. Mike looks back down at the water, slowly swirling with more and more colours. 

He’s suddenly and entirely tired, and childish, and hurt. He shakes his head and mutters “No. I’m good,”

“Mike,” Scott says. “Come on. Please get out of the water.”

“I won’t, Scott,” Mike replies in turn, and Scott’s eyes go hard and distant. Before Mike can so much as blink, Scott disappears.

Mike stares at the space where he had just been, and then throws his head back against the fountain and groans. There’s that, then.

(Scott isn’t even there when Mike wakes up. He has to pull himself into consciousness, sitting up to a dark and cold room. It’s raining outside. Can Mike’s life cut out the shit for once?)

It’s—it’s whatever the opposite of a miracle is, something awful and so unlikely to happen that it happening makes it even more fucking awful, when Mike goes to sleep after watching stupid Scott Favor drive away from him and hop on a stupid plane and go back to stupid Portland, and wakes up in Idaho. He’s on the road. Of course he fucking is.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Mike just wants to sleep and forget how fucking awful the conscious world is. 

The one upside is that he’s pretty fucking good at sitting at the side of roads and waiting, so he does exactly that. He’s pretty sure he knows what he’s waiting for; it’s happened all the other times. It’ll happen this time as well.

_ Ah, bitter vindication, _ he thinks, when he sees a motorcycle on the horizon. Mike waits some more, and then Scott fucking Favor pulls up beside him.

“Mike,” Scott says plaintively.

“Scott,” Mike parrots back. He doesn’t think he has the energy for this. “Was your flight back nice?”

Scott looks hurt. It’s fucking ridiculous that Scott looks hurt because Mike is dreaming and his subconscious could at least do him the fucking favour of making this easier. 

“It was fine,” Scott says quietly. Mike has absolutely nothing to say. Not to _ that _ at least. He does have something he wants to say, but he doesn’t think Scott wants to hear it. Not even the Scott who lives in his dreams. 

Technically, this Scott didn’t break his heart, but it still hurts all the same.

“I—” he starts, and then cuts himself off. He finds that he can’t form the words, can’t even get them past his throat. Strangely, it’s even harder to say it than it was in real life. How does that even make sense? This is inside his fucking _ head. _

Scott, still looking sad, still looking hurt, says “I know, Mike. I know.”

Scott knows because Mike told him. Scott knows and still left. 

“I love you,” Mike whispers. Scott sighs, tilts his head, and makes his hair fall in his face in the process. Mike aches at the sight, crushed under the weight of his want.

“Yeah,” Scott replies. “I’m sorry, Mike.”

Scott puts his motorcycle back into gear, and it’s awful, it’s unbelievable, that Mike’s head makes him watch Scott leave a second time. Aren’t dreams supposed to be good? Aren’t dreams supposed to be unrealistic? 

Scott drives away, down the road. Mike watches until he disappears into the horizon, and then falls back onto his back. The sun is as bright as ever, and he stares up into it and hopes he goes fucking blind.

There’s that, then. Time to wake up. The illusion, and it had been an illusion all along, awake or asleep, comes to an end.


End file.
